The tale of the storyteller
by jkay1980
Summary: Sherlock weaves his net around Moriarty. His scheme culminates in the events of the Reichenbach Falls. While Sherlock tries to complete his plan, John tries to come to terms with Sherlock's death by trying to prove his innocence. When Sherlock finally returns, rebuilding their friendship turns out to be not that easy. Especially when certain feelings suddenly come to light.
1. High Treason

**Title: The tale of the storyteller**

**Author: jkay1980**

**Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Romance**

**Warnings: Slash. Don't like, don't read.**

**Pairing: John Watson and Sherlock Holmes**

**Rating: T. Rating may change later.**

**Disclaimer: You know. I own the plot, not the characters. I make no money with it. I'm writing just for fun.**

**Beta: The chapter is betad by TheMuseofDeduction. Thank you so much.**

**Author's note: Work in progress. Maybe slow updates.**

* * *

"He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you."

_Friedrich Nietzsche_

CHAPTER ONE (Sherlock's POV)

Pall Mall

London SW1Y

London Borough of City of Westminster

_February 2012_

I move deeper into the protection of the door entrance, where I took up my post in order to observe the object of my interest across the street. The wind whistles shrilly through the long road and icy wind bits into my face. I turn my coat collar up and wrap myself tightly within my coat. It's already pouring with rain since the early morning and the weather doesn't improve my mood. By now my wet curls stick rebelliously to my forehead and I hate it when they do. It makes me look like a drowned rat. And, what is probably worse, it makes me feel like one too.

I cast another glance at my watch, which I can barely make out in the diffuse light of the street lamp, and curse under my breath. Time stands still and I resent waiting. Patience is no virtue of mine and unfortunately I have no other choice but exercising patience at the moment. I can only hope that my suffering quickly comes to an end.

Fortunately the street is busy and provides with some kind of distraction. I focus my eyes on the people and try to kill time by surveying the bustling figures, who are rushing past me stoically.

_Wife. Mid-fifties. White tunic under coat. Glasses. Pharmacist. Two children. Unhappily married. Affair with her superior._

_Man in his early thirties. Suit. Neat appearance. Short fingernails. Bank employee. Dark circles under his eyes. Had had a long night. Unmarried._

_Man in his early forties. Casual clothing. Special brand. Overly groomed. Epilated eyebrows. Traces of mascara. Ballet dancer. Gay._

_Wife. Late forties. Suit. Large handbag. Phone clamped between shoulder and ear, writing in her agenda. Manager. Married. No children._

Well actually, they're quite boring.

I heave a sigh, remembering how much I would have liked to bring some of the strong tars with me from home. Of course I know perfectly well that they are only intended for periods in which I am in one of my darkest moods, thinking the gloomiest thoughts and being absolutely unmanageable altogether. Such a state of mind goes far beyond my incidental wall shooting but hasn't occurred since I have met John. And as per usual, the doctor took the greatest pains to hide my emergency supply of cigarettes, cherishing the idle hope of having found a hiding place that I would not be able to find.

My mouth twitches slightly at the thought of it. Obviously John's efforts are nothing but a wild-goose chase. How should I of all people not come to know something? All of his hiding places insult me with their pretense of security. It took me approximately ten seconds to deduce that John is hiding my cigarettes currently between his own socks. Why would he lock his sock drawer otherwise and then take the key with him as if it is his most precious possession? Of course, I am playing along for a little while. I always do. And so I made John believe that I haven't worked it out yet.

However, I have to admit that I was tempted strongly this afternoon to give in to my nicotine addiction, considering what I intend to do tonight. But I agreed with John on cold turkey before and so I resisted the temptation in the end. It's rather strange I have to say, and it defies any explanation, but my friend has somehow managed to secretly gain a place in my mind. My own guilty conscience now sounds quite suspiciously like John. When I pondered the cigarette question briefly this afternoon, I started to have a bad feeling about it. After an imaginary good telling-off by John, I left the drawer alone and ultimately opted for only three nicotine patches. The man definitely has a bad influence on me.

I grimace, furrowing my eyebrows thoughtfully. Guilty conscience? I muse where I actually did pick up such a thing? And when?

The whole thing probably started somewhere between Bart's and Baker Street not so long ago …and to top it all, it happened in less than twenty four hours.

Instinctively I close my eyes for a moment, groaning mentally. I inwardly curse the day I opened my heart. No, correction. My heart opened up on its own account. To make matters worse, all of it happened as effortlessly as anything. I met John and a few hours later I already set aside my possessions for him, seeking his approval. Now, a year later, I try to take better care of myself – or let John take care of me, - I try to behave better, eat more regularly and do the shopping occasionally. It seems that even tobacco is taboo for me now. It irritates me and I find it confusing that most of the time I am not even doing it on purpose. All of it happens automatically when John is around. It's enough to make you crazy! I have absolutely no idea how I've gotten into this whole emotional chaos in the first place. I even tried to consult science on the matter. Looking at it from a purely psychological point of view the preconditions for this mess must have developed during my childhood. But I can't remember such a thing. My conscience never bothered me before I met John. Good and bad have always been a matter of interpretation. The end justified the means eventually because law and justice don't always go hand in hand…and feelings….were taboo. I distanced myself successfully from my emotions since my youth. In their place logic and reason emerged as the pivotal elements of my life … but then I met John and the man changed everything.

I recall the events at the swimming pool when logic and reason became unimportant to me for the first time in ages. John came out of the locker room, repeating Moriarty's words; he opened his jacket, revealing the vest which was loaded with explosives. Suddenly the thrill of the chase swept away and made room for ... emotions. I discovered my heart and unfortunately so did Moriarty. For a second I feared that John actually was Moriarty and I felt betrayed. Thank God, John turned out to be just John. When the sniper targeted him I was agitated by sudden fear. I was in fear of his life. That night I experienced a vortex of emotions I thought I had left behind me. Apparently I was wrong. Since then, I am keeping a watchful eye on my friend and follow him everywhere. Secretly of course. John would be furious if he would know.

I have to admit that I'm not only brought here tonight by logic and reason but especially by John. And in view of what I have to do, the calming effect of the smoke would really have been very welcome indeed …

I avert my gaze from the opposite doorway and look up at the windows of the top floor, behind which the lion's den is waiting for me. Instinctively I narrow my eyes to slits. A storm similar to the one that rages through the streets of London, rages in me. My stomach turns at the sole idea of going up there at all and it feels oddly hollow. I force myself to be calm nevertheless, breathing deeply several times. Deep in my heart I know I have no choice. I pondered the matter carefully for a week before I finally made my decision this morning. In the running-up to tonight I have examined all alternatives, weighed my options and looked at all scenarios from various angles. This move is my best option, offers the best perspective and is definitely the most promising solution. I analyzed it thoroughly and I know very well that if I start upon this path, there will be no backing out again. And yet, part of me is still struggling to realize that I really am going to do it. But if you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains must be the truth, no matter how crazy it sounds. It's my own maxim. I have to adhere to it. It provides support and direction and sent me only rarely on the wrong path. Disconcertingly however, I don't feel relieved. This decision entails serious consequences with a long term effect. The potential ramifications are manifold. My life and the lives of others will inevitably change forever. I don't know what this will bring about and how I feel in the light of this uncertainty. For the first time in a long while my world is chaos again. Up is down. Left is right. Light is dark. . .

I had been in a foul mood ever since the moment I reached my conclusion. During the afternoon I had shot on the living room wall again. The last time I had indulged in firing practice indoors, John didn't approve of the smiley which I had painted on the wall to hide the bullet holes. This time I adorned it with a patriotic E. II. R., hoping that this ornament would be more to his liking. But that wasn't the case. Obviously. My renewed attempt of decorating the living room had in turn led to another confrontation with John, who refuses to talk to me ever since. The good doctor can be just as stubborn as I am myself and had stormed out of the flat to meet one of his former military comrades in the pub. Bill Murray, I remember. Since having had a particularly thorny dispute with my friend, I save all data relating to him very carefully in my mind palace just in case I might need them again. I know that he would undoubtedly classify my not remembering the names of his friends in the category "a bit not good" and therefore I try to remember all of the names as a precaution - with the exception of John's nerve-killing girlfriends. . . Those are a thorn in my side. Thank Heavens John doesn't have a date tonight. The last woman had been extremely persistent. I only got rid of her with great difficulty, after misbehaving very skillfully. However, John isn't my concern right now - at least not primarily.

My eyes go back to the entrance of the building in front of me. Of course, I could break in there very easily if I'd want to, but I chose not to. It would probably not answer my purpose. Instead, I am cooling my heels since half an hour for the common good. John would certainly be proud of me if he'd known.

From the corner of my eye I notice a motion before the house opposite. Finally, the man I need to see arrives and steps out of a black car that stopped alongside the house.

I feel how I involuntarily tense my muscles and clench my hands into fists in my coat pockets. My heartbeat quickens and small beads of sweat form on the inside of my palms. Right now, I would like to be anywhere better than here. I'd even prefer to voluntarily spend an hour with the idiot of a forensic officer, but it is no use. The only way out of it, unfortunately is the way through.

For a moment I pause and scrutinize the man.

_Favorite suit. Westwood. Dark grey tie. Well-known crisis outfit. Internal political matter. Strained face. Had to calm tempers. Umbrella over his left arm. The matter is resolved satisfactory to both parties._

At least he would be in reasonably good spirits. I take another deep breath and then resign myself to my fate. "Good evening," I say curtly as I reach the car.

The man turns around. "Sherlock?" he replies incredulously. "To what do I own the honour of your private call? I sincerely hope that the reason for your visit is more enjoyable than last time. The happy announcement at last?"

"I need to talk to you in private, Mycroft," I say and notice that I'm not entirely able to banish the annoyance out off my voice. "Do you mind if I come in?"

My brother looks at me for a moment and then gestures me inside. "My house is your house, dear brother."

Inside the elevator we stare at each other in silence. John would say we are indulging in our private competition of staring each other down. But it rather is a battle of wits, deducing each other thoroughly. What we deduced we keep for ourselves this time.

Mycroft addresses me again when we enter his apartment. He waves me towards a chair by the fireplace and offers me a glass of whiskey, taking the chair opposite me. "Why are you here? This isn't courtesy call, I suppose. The matter with Miss Adler surely didn't make you sentimental all of a sudden."

I bite my lip when faced with the sarcasm of Mycroft's words. Our relationship has further pressurized due to my slip in the Adler affair. I know only too well how quickly these taunts can degenerate into a war of words - and however much I would like to tell him where to get off, and no matter how reluctantly I even knock on his door this evening at all, I cannot afford a renewed confrontation. There simply is too much at stake.

"I need your help," I answer.

"That must hurt."

It does and, out of a habit, I glare at him. "Save your barb remarks, Mycroft!" I say and immediately kick myself mentally for my own. So much for good intentions.

Mycroft leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands. His facial expressions and his gestures resemble my own so much that I feel a certain pang in my stomach at the sight of him.

"What are you offering me, Sherlock? A truce?"

I take a deep breath. I remind myself of the reasons I come here today and that this step has to be done and is only logical. The quicker I will get it over and done with, the better. I force myself to look squarely into my brother's eyes and to swallow my pride. "You don't want a truce. You want a peace treaty, don't you?" I ask, trying to appear as composed as possible.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "You want to bury the hatchet? Really?" he asks, leaning back in his chair. "You must be desperate."

Fortunately my brother never had been a man of many words. He doesn't get carried away by sentimentality in the face of our long-yearned-for family reconciliation. His luck is possibly a bit clouded by the fact that it doesn't come from the heart. In the end I cannot fool him all the time.

"What can I do for you?" Mycroft finally asks.

"I have a score to settle with James Moriarty," I reply.

Mycroft nods blankly. "That can be arranged. He is developing into an affair of the state slowly but surely. I can take care of him if you want… permanently of course."

I quickly shake my head. "No. I'll do it myself. This is something between him and me," I reply, and then continue darkly," I want that his downfall and the destruction of his organization are explicitly and permanently connected with my name. This matter must be resolved once and for all."

"It's a personal vendetta, then," Mycroft states. "Your final problem."

"He decided to make it personal," I say quietly.

"I see," was the only thing Mycroft says then. John's name and the events at the pool fortunately remains unspoken between us in this context.

"His detention is the main goal, of course, but I'm afraid that he will be able to save his neck. He wants to destroy me. Ergo, his destruction is inevitable," I add.

Mycroft watches me carefully. "You are offering me a peace treaty because you're going on a suicide mission?"

"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Was it not, Mycroft?" I remark impassively.

My brother's facial expression testifies sincere dismay. "Sherlock ..."

"Mycroft, believe it or not, but I would prefer to not endanger my life by my so-called suicide mission," I reply. "But no one but myself can finish the whole thing. Moriarty stops at nothing. You can't negotiate with him. It must be me. I have to stop him or people will suffer."

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "What happened, Sherlock? You always were so happy together."

I glare at him. "Very funny, Mycroft," I say. Then I take a few deep breaths, calming myself down. Only when I am sure that I won't make another cutting remark, I continue. "The woman said that he advised her without asking anything in return. Why would he do that? He wanted to demonstrate that he knows us and can play us off against each other. This was just the prelude, a warning. His obsession with respect to me deepens. I have to use this in my favor."

"We are not only talking of danger, Sherlock. He wants to destroy you," Mycroft replies. "And he unfortunately knows your pressure point."

_John._

I look at my brother. "Just like he knows yours, dear brother, if I may remind you. And I know his. This is something you have in common with him, by the way," I say. "One should never let one's heart rule one's mind. I have to think like him and be prepared for anything. He is my intellectual equal. I cannot afford sentiment. My death is a possibility indeed and a low price to pay if I could be sure of Moriarty's destruction."

And John's safety, I think.

"But with your help maybe I don't have to die to beat him," I add quietly. "Two Holmes against one Moriarty ... If we work together my chances are better."

For a while we sit in silence together, watching each other. Mycroft's folded fingers go back and forth over his lips devoutly. A sign that he is involved in an internal struggle, because he knows that I will pursue my plan anyway, with or without his help. I may not like his interferences in my life, but I'm very well aware of the fact that Mycroft cares for me and would do everything to protect me, even if his doing is against his own axiom "feeling is not an advantage". I have to admit that even if I don't love my brother with all my heart, I know I can trust him. Even though the woman had further pressurized their relationship, Mycroft would have let her go free to save my reputation. And a trusted ally is exactly what I need to bring Moriarty down... one who can seal his heart of emotion at least on the face of it.

"Which role do I have to play in your plan, if I may ask?"

The corner of my mouth twitches slightly. The decision is made in my favor.

"Principally the iceman."

"I see," is all Mycroft replies. "And what role will you play yourself?"

"The innocent virgin."

Mycroft motions me to proceed with a gesture. "I'm all ears."

"You mentioned that Moriarty tries to attract your attention," I say.

Mycroft nods. "Yes. What do you want me to do? "

"You should set up a meeting. Invite him for a little chat. Give him your full attention. Find out what he wants from you. "

Mycroft looks at me intently. "We both know what he wants."

"Exactly. You should help him to get started. Play the fool. Give him a grilling. Fuel his passion for me," I reply.

"You wouldn't happen to tell me why?"

"Let's encourage him to make his first move. We might get lucky and have a say in his schedule. In the meantime, I will do my utmost to sweeten his days by prying into his affairs. Anyway, this whole thing will result in rapid chess, Mycroft. We need to make preparations ahead of it."

"The first move to what?"

I look at my brother. "To burn the heart out of me," I reply.

I don't know Moriarty's plan in detail yet, of course, but he knows that John is close to me and therefore I am in fear of John's life. It took me some time but by now I have a pretty good idea of how my heart could be burnt out of me. Obviously I don't want to let my brother in on it, but I have the sneaking suspicion that he already knows anyway. It seems that I am the last to know the personal needs of my heart.

I sip at my glass. "Give him what he wants, Mycroft, but try to be not too obvious just this once."

"What are you up to, Sherlock?" Mycroft asks with a worried expression.

I look at him intently, scrutinizing the fine lines in his face, which are unmistakably witnesses of sleepless, worry-soaked nights. Involuntarily I wonder how many of them I have caused already and how many more I will cause in the near future. All of us would have to eventually defy the storm that is brewing in the sky. The outcome is uncertain at this time.

"To burn," I finally say. In the end everyone would have to burn and I am very well aware of what I will be putting the ones dear to me through.

Mycroft's facial features derail for the fraction of a second at my words. "Sherlock...," he begins but I stop him immediately and dismiss his objection with a brittle wave of my hand. "Let us proceed, Mycroft. We have much to discuss. "

"I suppose John knows nothing of it all?" Mycroft asks tonelessly.

"No," I confirm. "He doesn't and he mustn't."

In view of my actions I already feel how a small flame flares up slowly but steadily in my heart, ready to take possession of me and devour me when the time has come. I am well aware that what I have done tonight and what is going to come is high treason against my best friend. . . Thinking of him, I feel a slight pain in my stomach, but I harden my heart the very same moment.

Sentiment is a chemical defect, found on the losing side. And I cannot afford to lose…

* * *

**"Set Into Stone"  
by Wes Fessler **

**When a choice is made of value**  
** it should be set into stone,**  
** with a firmness of conviction**  
** and a dedicated tone.**  
** If strong measures are not taken**  
** to stand up for what you choose,**  
** you have already decided**  
** that you're in the game to lose.**  
** For a wandering heart is mindless**  
** following its appetite.**  
** And it ventures into danger**  
** when the wrong appears as right.**  
** It is wise to know your limits**  
** and know when you're in too deep,**  
** but you should not make a promise**  
** that you don't intend to keep.**  
** If you contemplate your journey**  
** and set out upon the track,**  
** make your mind sincere and certain**  
**that you won't be turning back.**


	2. Crusade

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,  
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,  
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum  
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead  
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,  
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public  
doves,  
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,  
My working week and my Sunday rest,  
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;  
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;  
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;  
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.  
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

_W. H. Auden_

CHAPTER TWO (John's POV)

221 B Baker Street

London NW1 6XE

London Borough of City of Westminster

_June 2012_

I'm standing in front of the door at our home, where I have lived with Sherlock for so many months. Even though I have closed the door only a few hours earlier behind me, it seems to me as though weeks have passed. I can feel the warm sun of spring on my skin, but its warmth contrasts so strongly with the icy stranglehold, in which my guts have been held captive for the past fourteen days, that I perceive the warmth as sheer cruelty.

It's only been two weeks but it feels like an eternity. It's only been two weeks, I realize and when realization hits me, it threatens to blow me away. I still got the whole damn rest of my now completely meaningless life in front of me. It saddens me. It gets me down. The severity of my grief surprises me. I lost many good comrades at war, friends even, but I never felt like this.

The pain threatens, no, _is_ breaking me apart.

Involuntarily my eyes prick and I blink a few times to suppress the upcoming tears. Anger and grief are currently crashing in high waves upon me, in turns, and threaten to carry me off. I'm furious. With the press. With Mycroft. With Moriarty. I'm mad at myself and also angry with Sherlock. The moments in which this irrepressible rage fills every fibre of my body are more tolerable though than the moments in which I feel the horrible, sharp pain of loss. But both of them are certainly taking my breath away. I must get away from here. Away from Baker Street. Away from the constant reminders of him. I just cannot understand it all. It makes me mad. It hurts. Everything feels cold and empty.

Outwardly, I try to not let it show how much I miss him. During the past two weeks the vultures of the press have been everywhere, trying to get a picture of me, the mourning friend. But I'm doing my best to not give them the pleasure. I'm good at avoiding them. So the ugly articles which are published in the tabloids, dragging Sherlock's reputation through the dirt, slowly but surely decline in frequency, now. The world continues to turn. The episode Sherlock will soon be finished.

But not for me.

Our mutual friends do their best to comfort me, but Sherlock is irreplaceable, of course. I still cannot believe that Moriarty really has won. I often think about what he said back at the pool. I keep asking myself, did Sherlock burn in the twenty-four hours that devastated his life like his nemesis has predicted? Did he doubt me or my friendship for him at any point? Did he ever pause for a moment, doubting his choice? I truly regret our last hours, that I called him a machine.

He didn't deserve it. His kind-hearted character was as impressive as his genius, just less obvious to the world. Sometimes it even was less obvious to me. I should have known that he played me. But he knows…knew me so well…he knew exactly which buttons to push to get me here or there. We never had a healthy way of discussing our problems, neither of us being the talkative type. But most of the time I managed to look past the ice, right into his heart.

I've taken Ella's advice to heart. At the grave I told him today what I should have told him ages ago.

_You were the best man and the most human human-being I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. I was so alone and I owe you so much._

For the first time in ages I cried. That surprised me**.** I don't cry very often. I only knew Sherlock for eighteen months. But between us a bond had been formed that not even I can understand. I needed him. I still do. He complemented me, I have to admit. And now I'm alone again.

Mrs Hudson's voice interrupts my thoughts. "Are you sure, John? Maybe we can renovate number C for you if it is too much upstairs?"

I swallow and clear my throat. "No, Mrs Hudson. I know you mean well, but I really cannot go back at the moment," I say. "Please just leave Sh ... his things untouched. I'll take care of them later."

I even owe him that, I believe. He hated it when people touched his belongings. I was his exception. In many ways.

Reluctantly, she nods her head. "Look, John. You really don't need to worry about the rent. You know, his brother paid the rent three months in advance," she says and adds "the bastard," darkly.

I most certainly don't want to talk about _the bastard_. Undoubtedly the man is driven by his bad conscience. I would not have given him credit for having one. Mycroft 'I'm above it all' Holmes is one of the most dangerous men I know. He doesn't work for the secret service for no reason. Men without conscience. But dangerous or not, right now, I cannot undertake for my own behaviour, should the elder Holmes cross my path. He betrayed me, betrayed his brother. But obviously Mycroft Holmes smells rat, because the coward has vanished from the face of the earth since his brother's death. I may not be fair with him. The press might be hunting him, too. But at the moment I can't really say that I care.

I'm glad that Mrs Hudson unlocks the door. My own hands are shaking. My tremor, which disappeared when I became acquainted with Sherlock, has returned - as well as my psychosomatic limp. I noticed it at the cemetery.

"Do you need help packing?" she asks.

I shake my head. "No."

With one last sad smile my landlady disappears in her apartment, mourning her lost surrogate son on her own.

As I slowly climb up the stairs to our apartment – for some reason I recall that there are seventeen – my legs are heavy like lead. For a moment I stay in front of the living room door, which I have deliberately closed behind me when I left this morning. Reluctantly, I place the palm of my right hand against the closed door. I will leave our home for a time, trying to come to terms with everything before I can manage to deal with breaking up of the household. Right now, I cannot bear to cast a look at the violin nor the antelope skull, wearing Sherlock's headphones. I simply cannot.

I close my eyes for a moment and feel the old, rough wood under my fingers, knowing that Sherlock's life is hidden behind it. The chemical equipment, now carefully packed in boxes, is waiting for its fate. Knee-high piles of the women's magazine 'My Weekly' are lying on the floor. He has read them for hours after poring over thick books on decomposition in order to become familiar with the depths of the human mind. In his opinion, you will find all aspects of human life in the columns of named magazine. Personally, I have reason to doubt that. But discussions with Sherlock were useless at best. Sherlock's collection of ammunition is still exhibited in the showcase on the wall. The knife that 'organized' Sherlock's unread correspondence and that he 'luckily just stuck into the letters and not their authors' is still pinned on the mantelpiece. Although I once described our apartment as 'furnished in fungal chic', it's home to me. God, I'm going to miss all that.

My thoughts are in a merry-go-round since the day Sherlock has taken his own life. I play and replay his last words over and over again in my mind.

_I'm a fake. It's a trick, just a magic trick. I invented Moriarty._

I know that's not true. I know that Sherlock's words were nothing more than a lie. Sherlock lied to me just this once, standing on St. Bart's rooftop and wanting to make me believe these words. Again and again I ask myself 'why'. But the answer is hidden from me and the nagging uncertainty is torturing me. Did he not see any other solution to stop Moriarty's game? I just know that my best friend has jumped to his death because he had to, not because he wanted to. Someone forced him to. Forced to humiliate himself, to confirm the filthy lies about him and then to take his own life. So that the whole thing looked like a confession. That much is clear to me.

This knowledge makes his death neither easier nor more bearable, but gives me something to hold on. Gives me a reason to get up in the morning, a reason to eat, a reason to breathe. It somehow gets me through the night. At least for the moment. My mourning is not to be suppressed forever.

I take a few deep breaths and open my eyes. Then I pull rank and climb the remaining stairs to my room.

It's no good to linger around, dwelling about the past. Now there are more important things to do. I have to fulfil a task. Moriarty destroyed Sherlock, brought disgrace on him, stained his name and eventually left him no other way out than suicide. Which turns his suicide into murder. And I have vowed not to rest until I cleared Sherlock's name and James Moriarty, who vanished without a trace, gets what he deserves.

_Heroes don't exist and even if they would, then I would not be one of them._

Which remains to be seen. He hasn't always been right about everything.

Determined I reach for my mobile phone and dial the number. It goes over several times before the man picks up. "Greg, it's me, John. Do you have time tonight? I really need to discuss something with you."

* * *

When Greg joins me at the Pub a few hours later, he looks at me doubtfully. He doesn't seem to know what to say to me. Sherlock's death stands between us, neither of us being responsible for it but both of us feeling its weight.

"It's good to see you, John," he finally greets me, joining me at the back room table.

"I'm glad you could make it," I say. I already had two pints, trying to drown my anxiety and gathering some courage.

"How are you?" Greg asks sheepishly.

"I've been better," I say evasively. "But I got an apartment at Queen Anne Street from a doctor that I know from the hospital. She is a few months abroad. I can stay there as long as I want," I say and steer the topic on Greg's own situation. "And how are things going for you?"

I notice that Greg looks defeated. His face possesses an unhealthy white colour with blue circles under his eyes. "The superintendent gives me hell for letting you escape and not being able to lay my hands on you before … you know. He makes it my fault."

"That's ridiculous. If Sherlock took something to his head no one could change his mind," I say.

"I know," he replies. "And yet I feel responsible. I was angry at Sherlock for his bloody attitude, but I couldn't tell him 'no'. I had to warn you off. If I had taken him into custody, maybe he would still be alive."

"Stop it, Greg. This whole thing has to do with Moriarty," I say and look at him sternly. "Sherlock was not suicidal. Never has been. He had no reason to kill himself. God, he didn't ever give a damn what other people thought of him. You don't really believe this kidnapping nonsense?"

Greg blushes and runs his hand through his hair. "John, I really don't know what to believe anymore. Each question remains without answer, only raising countless new questions."

I glare at him. "That Kitty Reilly bitch made a criminal genius of him. I'm not standing back while she drags his name through the dirt. How can you even believe one word of this nonsense? You know him even longer than I have. Especially you should know him better. He always helped you. He was your _friend_." I emphasize the last bit on purpose. I know my words are not entirely fair.

"John, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. Of course, I don't think of Sherlock as a criminal mastermind," he relents. "He was a great man."

"He was a good one, too. I know him, Greg. And I think he tried to tell me the truth before he ... you know."

He looks at me inquiringly. "The truth?"

"He said that when we first met he wanted to impress me and that he has researched me in advance to do so."

"John, I really don't know how ..."

"What I meant to say is that he did not. I mean he impressed me, of course, but when he deduced my life story, not all of the facts were right. Had he researched me, he would have known that. If anything, Sherlock Holmes was a perfectionist. He didn't like to make mistakes," I explain.

Greg's face goes even paler. "He gives you his note, telling you that he was a fraud but secretly telling you to not believe a word of it?"

"No. Not fraud. He said fake. What he meant was that the note was fake."

He groans. "Why on earth did the idiot jump off the roof?"

"Moriarty must have forced him. I just don't know yet, how and why. I need to find out what happened, Greg. Look, you are my friend and I trust you. I need you to go through the Bruhl files again," I force myself to say with a firm voice.

Greg shakes his head in disbelief. "John, I can't …"

"Please, Greg. I know what I'm asking of you and I truly am sorry for getting you into trouble. But I have to proof his innocence."

"John, my hands are bound," he says with a wave of his hand.

"I owe him," I press forward. "It's the only thing left, I can do for him."

He looks at me with an inquiring eye.

I hold his gaze. "I'm standing fast, Greg. I'll bring Moriarty down. With or without your help."

Scrutinizing me, he finally penetrates the meaning of what I said. Resignation flares up in his eyes. Part of me feels sorry for him. I know he has a bad time at the moment. But I know it's the right thing to do. For both of us.

* * *

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**The chapter is betad by TheMuseOfDeduction. **

**Source description of the flat and scrapbook: "Sherlock - The Casebook" by Guy Adams.**


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